


Vent The Pressure

by Indigo2831



Category: Walker (TV 2021)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Partner Shit, Team Sassy Boots, Walker is a crappy dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29650950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indigo2831/pseuds/Indigo2831
Summary: Loose 1.02 "Back In The Saddle" tag.  Walker is struggling to be a better father in the midst of grieving his dead wife.  Sometimes, the pressure is just too much.  Angst and partner bonding abound.
Relationships: Cordell Walker & Stella Walker, Micki Ramirez & Cordell Walker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	Vent The Pressure

The stink of manure covered the yeasty tang of the beer he drank. The problem with crashing in a converted farmhouse is that it didn’t lend much for privacy. August and Stella had their rooms while Walker’s was little more than a converted stable with one fully insulated wall, a king-sized bed and no door.

So he’d bugged off after supper and hidden with the horses. Drinking to take the edge off. The orphaned foal Mawline and her bleeding heart had been unable to refuse from the county animal control wouldn’t judge. Cordell gulped from his tall boy, and laid eyes on the baby Morgan. Her coat was a sparkling onyx, its shine undulled by her mother’s death, her traumatic entrance to the world, and the fevers that plagued her now. She lay messily, legs splayed in three different directions, the Spartan-esque spike of black mane that revealed a smudge of silver between her eyes. Her cries are weak vibrations of woe that clench Walker’s teeth. She had refused a bottle when Mawline was there. 

Walker finished his second beer with a desperate gulp and a burp, and crawled from the corner of the stable, approaching her slowly. Like human infants, it was important to lay hands on newborn horses. The human-horse relationship was mostly tactile and unspoken. “Come on, girl.” 

He hugged around her squat neck, cupping her hindquarters to stand her on shaking legs. She neighed in complaint, but Walker pressed on, reaching the snag a plaid horse blanket to swathe her in. He strapped it around her flank and neck and rubbed her down to inspire warmth. She sank down on her haunches and he tucked the hay in around her and dragged her water bowl near, urging her to drink. She tucked her head back behind her and closed her eyes. 

“I don’t blame you,” he commiserated.

He sank against the wall, reaching around her untouched bottle to snag another beer. “That’s the hardest part,” he said wistfully, “the world going on. I’m not sure what to do.” He drank, though the alcohol, especially beer, wouldn’t ever make the pain bearable, the loss less constant. “Em, tell me what to do.” He whispered. 

Walker didn’t believe in visiting cemeteries. The dead weren’t there. He was lovingly and constantly haunted by Emily. On the rolling hills of his ranch, in their home in town, at the office where she’d brought dinners for the squad when cases ran long. In his children. The aroma of roses or Daddy’s strong brew in the morning. The song of a feminine laugh. The burn of a good whiskey. Walker had built its life around her, and now he was bereft and forever off-kilter without her.

As grief roared, wild and violent within, and he cracked his head back against the stable door. Emily, his college sweetheart, was a part of him, and he’d carry this ache proudly until the day he died. He guiltily wished it was soon.

But he had children to raise and no idea how to do it alone. Emily had been the hands-on parent, changing their diapers and wiping their spit-up and nursing their fevers as naturally as breathing. He’d been fearful, too big and clumsy to comfortably bathe them or change their clothes. He’d been too nervous when they were toddlers, constantly worried that they’d fall or drown or stop breathing. He’d been downright absent as they got older, unable to separate the ugliness and depravity from his job to feel clean enough or innocent enough for play or games.

He wasn’t a natural parent, and now he was the only one. He had to step up, but he just wasn’t sure how or if he was good enough. The last year had proven that he wasn’t.

He allowed himself the privilege of shedding a few tears of utter helplessness and loss. He pulled his knees up and braced his head in his hands, crying a little to release some of the pressure. Cowboys and Texas Rangers could cry if no one was there to see it, right?

Cordell flinched when he felt bristly fur brush against his arm. He looked up and into the dark, glowing face of the foal, shakily standing, her stout neck dropping to sniff the discarded bottle. 

“Yeah?” He asked. 

She drank from the bottle sloppily and messily. Her eyes never strayed from his. Walker smiled down at her, and understood. He had to move forward no matter how impossible it seemed. He had to be present for his kids. 

For Emily. 

And he did. He attacked his new life like a case, and started with the basics by just getting to know them again. He took them to rodeos, short road trips, and the movies. He started new traditions, like Sunday Supper, which usually amounted to too much takeout to the farmhouse and bingeing trash TV with Liam and Brett. Emily would never approve of the lack of vegetables, but she’d respect the effort. 

It was astounding the people they were becoming. August was sensitive and tenderhearted in ways that were 100% Emily. Daddy wanted to toughen him up, but Walker cherished his innocence and sweetness. He chattered on for hours about directors and films and up-and-coming actors. Walker liked the classics but absorbed his son’s passion like sunlight. He was prone to nightmares, and though he was too old to climb into bed with his daddy, he didn’t balk when Walker sat on the floor next to his bed at night, providing company and solace much like he had with the filly, which they had named Nova.

Stella’s poorly contained anger was something they could definitely connect with. He ordered pads and a heavybag and got her to work out her rage through sweat and physicality. He let her shoot guns and break plates and wail on him whenever she needed, and reassured her when workouts ended in tears. “We’re just venting the pressure,” he told her, rubbing her back and letting her wipe her snotty face on his shirt. 

He enrolled the kids in therapy to make sure they were processing their grief in the healthiest way possible.

While he wasn’t sure that Mawline’s farm was going to be their permanent home, Cordell couldn’t deny that the kids had thrived there after their mother’s death, and had built a comfortable routine in his absence. He put the house on the market and decided to stay until the ground settled more under their feet. The built-in child care was an added bonus. 

None of it was easy, balancing work and busy kids was a challenge for intact families, so nurturing the grief was a constant and treacherous undertaking, and yet for the first time since a crying newborn with a delicate dusting of carrot-orange hair was placed in his arms, Walker felt like he was showing up, like he was part of it all. He was doing right by his kids no matter the personal cost. 

Cordell yawned jaw-crackingly wide as tapped the lid of the coffeemaker in an attempt to strangle his caffeine from the machine. Another night by August’s bed left his body sore and his mind fogged with exhaustion. 

“Astronaut…” Stella announced, gnawing on a granola bar. “No, accountant. Shorter commute.” 

Walker dumped sugar blindly into his coffee cup while shooting a glare at the coffee maker. “Good one. I can barely balance my checkbook.” 

“What’s a checkbook, old man?” Stella asked with an evil smile. “Nurse?” She reasoned.

Walker’s face soured. “Squeamish. Ha, yes!” Walker whooped when the coffee finished brewing. He poured it into his special mug taking a sip for tradition’s sake before filling his biggest travel cup.

Stella’s new crusade was finding her father a new career, one that didn’t involve putting his life in danger, carrying a firearm or in her words, “facilitating the continued oppression of Black and Brown Americans through an unjust system borne from runaway slave patrols.” 

“You’ve been birthing horses since you were 10,” Stella recounted. “And I’ve seen you take out your own stitches.” 

Walker tossed his gunbelt over his shoulder and shooed Stella out of the door. “You gotta try harder, Butterbean.” 

“Lawyer?” She hedged. 

“Law school at forty?” Walker griped. “Get it in the car. We’re late.” 

###

Police tape, haphazardly parked squad cards, and the swirl of Stetsons used to invigorate Walker more than the strongest brew of coffee or the best workout. But now, as a widower, he found himself more empathic with the victims than energized by the chaos. 

He tipped back the brim of his hat to wipe his brow. The sun was heavy on his shoulders, intensifying the lowgrade headache he woke up with. He lingered on the outskirts of the onion farm-turned-crime scene. 

The air smelled perversely delicious, like caramelized onions, thanks to the fields of charred onions. But all Walker could focus on was the bereft timbre in the voice of the farmer, whose onion fields had been intentionally burned. The fourth one since harvest season began.

Normally, Walker would be in the middle of the fray, pestering the techs for evidence, all too eager to jump on the leads. Instead, he ignored his pounding head, and approached the farmer, whose face was streaked in soot and his hands were bandaged as he’d literally stuck them in fire to save his livelihood. He pulled him away from the officer who was not-so-politely questioning him and into the shade of the barn overhang. “Take a breath,” he said and made a theatrical show of breathing in and out. “You’re okay.” 

The farmer, Kal, copied him with a shuttering inhale and a lugubriously exhale. He rambled for a moment in Spanish and then sank a little against the barn. “Who would do this? Who am I supposed to feed my family?” 

Walker was tempted to talk about insurance payouts and offer assurances that they’d get their man, but he knew about bureaucracy and how a cold check would never replace what was lost. “We’re going to take this one step at a time. First step, go to the hospital and get properly treated. That’s all you have to do right now, okay?” 

Tears made bedraggled tracks through the soot staining his face. He swiped at them with the back of his gauze-wrapped hands and nodded. Walker placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and led him to the ambulance while shooting a glare at the overzealous and uncompassionate agent. He looked forward to picking that bone later and loudly. 

Micki and Walker combed the property looking for evidence or clues. Maybe it was the oppressive sun or the cloying smell of roasted onions but Walker grew more nauseous with every step. Kal’s broken pleas and distraught prayers echoed in his mind with a driving intensity. His legs tingled with a sharp cold and became wooden and weak. 

Micki droned on beside him—probably something strictly professional because she never opened up—but Cordell could only hear the distant thrum of her voice over the high-pitched whistle in his ears. When a crushing pressure cinched around his ribs, Walker staggered blindly away, searching for the privacy of his truck, like Nova who often buried her head in the hay when she missed her mama and the world got to be too much. 

By the time he laid hands on her dust-coated fender, Walker had to vomit. He did so in the ash of Kal's livelihood and collapsed harshly in the gravel. Digging his fists in the barren, rocky earth, Walker tried to ride it out until this storm passed. 

Except it only got worse. 

His entire body shook and shuttered with such violence that he thought he’d launch off the pavement, and he couldn’t draw in a proper breath. 

It took a moment to sort through the misery of his body to realize that Micki in front of him. Calling his name. 

Her voice wafted in like watery, choppy waves, “...you all right? Gonna...Larry...help.” 

If possible, Walker felt an even stronger surge of horror and forced himself to speak through chattering teeth. “Wait...no don’t…”

“Something’s wrong, Walker.” Micki pressed her fingers against the pulse point on his wrist and moved to stand up. “Your heart is racing. You need help.” 

He grabbed her arm with hands he couldn’t feel and gripped it tightly, partly to prove that he could but also to implore her with the resounding intensity that roiled through him. “This is...all I-I h-have.  _ Michelle _ , p-please...don’t.” 

Micki’s eyes softened and she bit her lip. “What’s going on with you then?” 

“Dunno,” Walker said honestly. His body was rebelling against him in too many ways to count. 

He didn’t realize he was still squeezing her arm until she gripped it back, kneeling in the dirt. And for some reason, the contact helped ease some of the pressure in his chest that he could now recognize as (thankfully retreating) pain. “Gettin’ better.” 

“What is? Does something hurt?” 

“M’chest.” 

He instantly regretted his words when Mick’s eyes flared wide, and she shot to her feet, flagging someone over. 

The trepidation descended with the gentility of a lightning strike until he was choking on it, barely able to draw breath. Walker stared at the scuffed leather of her department-issued boots, and focused on the intricate stitching. He hooked a stiff hand around it, desperate for a connection of some touchstone.

He heard Larry tap his Ranger ring against his car, an old habit from their days as partners. “What’d you need, Ramirez? Did you find something?” 

“Um…” 

Walked tightened his hand on her ankle. His mind was a tangled of half-formed, misfiring thoughts, and yet he knew with a terrifying certainty that if Larry saw Walker crouched on the ground, struggling like a rabid animal next to splatters of his own sick, his time as a Ranger would be over. 

And then what? 

That notion only drove up his already stampeding heart until he was dizzy, head throbbing. 

Micki faltered. “Uh, I didn’t find anything in the fields but it might be a good idea to grab surveillance from nearby cameras.” 

“You don’t need my permission, Ramirez. Track down that partner of yours and get to work. Let me know if anything pans out,” he ordered and retreated judging by the retreating footsteps crunching in the gravel. 

After a moment, Micki allowed the tight smile to plummet from her face and knelt down beside Walker again. “You owe me so barbecue, Walker. Can you stand?” 

Walker didn’t think he could, but he managed on stubbornness and spitfire alone. She folded his legs into the passenger seat of his own truck and ran to the drivers’ side, peeling out of the farm. “So you can’t die until you’re paid in full. Copy?” When they reached the highway, she flipped on the sirens and followed the road signs to the nearest hospital.

He tried not to throw up or pass out in the seat beside her and hoped that was answer enough. 

**

Micki stood in the corner of the waiting room with her hands cinched around Walker’s gunbelt. The nurse hadn’t wanted to leave a firearm with Walker’s other belongings. She selfishly wondered how big the mark on her record would be if her senior partner died on her watch: a blemish or an indelible stain. 

Deeper than that, she couldn’t shake off the image of an ashen-faced Walker shuddering and groaning in obvious distress beside her. Though she hadn’t been able to deny his glassy-eyed plea not to read in Captain James, Micki had the forethought to radio ahead to the hospital, so they were ready for Walker when he arrived.

That had been an hour ago, and Micki was starting to feel like she might need to call someone for Walker. And the very notion made her nauseous. As much as Micki tried to establish a professional distance with her partner, she was able to gauge his moods beyond his wall of sarcasm and Labradorian friendliness. He’d been easily irritable, visibly tired, and somewhat distracted. Micki expected far less from a Ranger whose own wife was murdered less than a year ago, especially after meeting him on her last day as a trooper but the cracks were beginning to show. 

She knew Walker’s brother worked in the D.A.’s office. A few taps on her phone later, her finger hovered over the Call button when a nurse approached. “Your friend will be discharged in a moment,” he said with an exasperated tone Micki was quite familiar with. 

“Dis-discharged?” Micki echoed, alarmed. “Is that...wise?” 

His nostrils flared. “No, but take that up with him. He signed himself out AMA.” 

“For God’s sake,” she threw his gunbelt over her shoulder. “Take me to the idiot.” 

The tall man in gray scrubs smirked conspiratorially. “We’ve been calling him Captain Dumbass.” 

As she followed the nurse through the corridors, Micki left a message with Liam’s assistant before she barged into the designated, curtained-off area. 

Where Walker was incredibly undressed.

Micki got a flash of roughly eight feet of legs, patterned boxer briefs, and a decent set of abs—ABS?!—before she whirled around, cringing. “Sorry, sorry!” She frantically parted and puffed the curtain looking for the split. 

“When I said I wanted to get to know you better, that’s not what I meant,” Walker joked. 

“Oh great, the terrible jokes are back,” Micki replied to the plane of blue cotton that was currently keeping her trapped. 

“You’re good,” Walker said.

Micki turned around, hands on her hips. She scrutinized her partner with a glare. Despite his bedraggled, bed-mussed hair and the empty IV part dangling from his hand, he seemed better, if a little glassy-eyed and tired. Before she could ask what he’d been afflicted with, a doctor whisked into the treatment area and passed over printouts and pamphlets:  _ Disarming Your Anxiety Attacks _ and  _ The New Nervous Breakdown _ . 

She regarded Micki with an aggravation that spoke to frayed nerves. Micki didn’t need to be a doctor to know that it was a symptom of dealing with a full ER on top of a bullheaded Texas Ranger was the cause. “Are you his people?” 

Micki stuttered. If she claimed him he’d never live it down. If she didn’t, he’d pout like a kicked dog for a week. 

Dr. Lucas took her hesitation as the affirmative. “He should be going to the CCU at least overnight to monitor his blood pressure and get a full cardiac work-up, but he signed himself out AMA so he’s your problem now. Make sure he follows up with his primary care physician regarding his BP,” she scribbled something on her clipboard and handed a slip of paper and a small vial of pills to Cordell. “The sedatives we talked about. Take them for the next two days. Make sure you use the referral for the psychologist. He’s really good with anxiety attacks and grief management. He’s also very discreet.” 

Walker frowned at the doctor. “Oh, so you do know what discretion is? Funny.” 

Fire flashed in her eyes, but it cooled when she regarded Micki. “He’s your problem now. Good luck, Ranger. Make sure he rests. I’ll have some soft restraints if you need them.” And with that final snide remark, she was gone. 

_ Panic attacks? High blood pressure? Therapists?  _

The curtains were still rippling from the doctor’s hasty exit, and Walker dizzily trying to put on his boots oblivious to a trained physician’s palpable anger at his lack of self-preservation still thickening the air. 

“Walker, what’s going on?” 

“She’s overreacting.” 

“Try again.” 

Walker raked his fingers through his hair and grabbed his gunbelt from where it rested on over her shoulder like a lethal sash. “Can we just go?” 

Micki pressed a hand against his chest, briefly to stop his exit. “Walker, are you okay?” 

He flashed that cavalier smile that was tragic because of the silver gleaming in his eyes and put on his Stetson. “Probably not.” 

The drive home was punctuated by a tense quiet, partially because Walker was exhausted, but mostly because Micki didn’t know how to address the situation. She’d be lying if said she understood what Walker was going through. She’d dealt with her fair share of grief but she’d never lost someone she’d built a life with. Even Garrison’s death, as hard as it was, was after two turbulent years of friendship. The only thing she learned on the job is that grief wasn’t a single, traumatic event, but a life sentence of them. 

She pulled up to Walker’s house in the city, noting the FOR SALE sign swinging in the breeze. Like a fussy, extremely tall infant, Walker startled awake the second the engine cut off. He rubbed his eyes and tugged off the seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride, partner. I’m gonna sleep this off and then I’ll be clear enough to help you sort through the surveillance footage.” 

Micki quirked an eyebrow in disbelief as Walker got out of the car, stumbled and sank below the window of her F150 like the ground had opened up and swallowed him whole. 

Though in 2021, it was entirely possible. 

At first, she thought that her partner had merely lost control of those ridiculously long legs and sat in the sunburnt grass of his front yard, but when she got a good look at this face, the devastation, and the wobbling chin, she knew it was much more. Instead of helping him up, she sat next to him, back against the truck, knees bent up. Shoulder to shoulder.

“You know I never asked you about your wife. What she was like,” she ventured.

Walker closed his eyes, lashes growing damp. “I can’t, Mick. Not today.” 

“Okay, okay,” she breathed. “Look, cards on the table, I’m a little out of my depth here, but  _ I’m here _ , Walker. To help you, not to judge. You’re obviously not okay, and there’s nothing wrong with that. You feel that you don’t have anything else than this job, but that’s not true. You have your kids and your family. You can make the world a better place in a million different ways, Cordell.” 

Cordell was quiet for a long time, reigning it in or pushing it down. “I’ve been trying to be there, be the father they deserve. I’ve been talking about her and watching movies and it feels like...like I’m cutting myself open every time. As a dad, I have to keep her alive for them because that’s what they need. But as me, as a guy with a dead wife, it might be killing me.”

“Maybe tell them that.” 

“I’m a crappy father at best. I owe them more.” 

“Then call that therapist,” Micki said. “I’m not...going to rat you out, but you have to take care of yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you looking like crap these last few weeks.” 

“Your bedside manner is just as gentle as Dr. Lucas’,” Walker deadpanned.

“She wasn’t wrong. I don’t want a front-row seat to your nervous breakdown any more than she does. So we’re going to play it my way.” 

“Why does it sound like I don’t have a choice?” 

Micki smiled and stood up, extending a hand to her partner who was stubbornly becoming a friend. “Because you don’t. Deal?” 

Walker rolled his eyes and took her hand.

**

Stella’s bed was about a foot too short for him, but he had plenty of practice curling up in it. It was firm and smelled like his babygirl. He woke up cloudy-headed, cotton-mouthed, stiff-jointed, but more rested than he could remember in weeks. 

A shower in the guest bathroom melted most of the residual grogginess from the sedatives at the hospital and made him feel something resembling a human being. Coffee, drive-through and a few hugs from his kids might do the rest of the job. He shot a glimpse at their darkened master bedroom and caught the edge of the ghosts lurking there in the tacky floral bedspread Emily had picked out and the hint of her perfume. 

The lurch of nausea in his stomach and tightness in his chest warned him that he could be haunted at another time. Right now, he had a career to salvage and a case to solve. 

He was only half-shocked to discover that Micki was still in his home, she’d changed out of his uniform and was wearing leggings and a loose, gray tunic. The white cords of her earbuds trailed from beneath her the messy, dark waves of her hair to the port of the laptop where she scribbled a note. Walker moved slowly, as not to scare her, and an instant, dark eyes pinned him instantly over the rim of the laptop. They softened at the sight of Walker upright. 

“That the security footage?” He asked.

“Yeah...I’ve gone through most of it, made a list of the plates I could make out without, and timestamps of suspicious activities.” 

“Great. You’ve done more than enough for today. I’ll take it from here.” The smell of warm herbs triggered an empty and roiled stomach. He spotted a pot on the stove: Chicken Tortilla Soup. 

“We’re not at the ‘cooking for each other stage’ yet. I picked it up from that place down the street.” 

Walker grabbed a spoon and dove in, eating directly from the pot. He was three slurping bites in when he glanced up guiltily. “Uh…d’ya want some?” 

Micki gazed at him almost fondly. “I already ate. Go nuts. But eat fast. Your phone has been blowing up.” 

“Yeah, I gotta get home,” Walker winced when he checked the clock. 

Stella and August were attuned to his new schedule, and suspicious when anything changed. Though Walker tried to reassure him that he was here to stay, the only way to really drive that home was to show up and keep his promises. 

And if that meant lying on some psychologist’s couch, maybe he’d have to do that too. If only to vent to the pressure. 

He finished the soup and tidied up the house, which was having daily showings. Their dream home was on the market, but wouldn’t be for long. Walker both loved and loathed visits there. Sometimes he could pretend Emily was still there, maybe at the store or down the street at the Campbell’s. But more and more, home was a converted farmhouse that was too cold on Texas nights with his children and the distant beat of horse hooves in the distance and his parents just up the way. 

Micki walked by, and he couldn’t help but swoop in and give her a hug. “Thank you. For today.” She squeaked in surprise, tensing at first, but then patted him awkwardly. “Are we at the hugging stage yet?” 

“I’ll make an exception.”

**

“Freezing!” Stella whined from the door of Walker’s bedroom. His was the only bedroom in the farmhouse that had a fireplace, sharing one with the great room on the opposite wall. The embers from the conflagration Liam had started while he hung out with the kids (another thing he owed Micki for) still smoldered brightly. Stella tossed a few small logs on the fire, replaced the safety grate, and climbed into Walker’s bed, still swathed in her own blanket. 

Walker was grateful for the darkness and for the warm-hearted girl just a few feet away. He pretended as if he wasn’t lying awake, mired in the physical, phantom pain of grief, of missing the woman that he’d known longer than he hadn’t. 

He wiped his eyes on the sheet and stared into the lofted ceiling of the barn as Stella settled next to him. “Private security?” he suggested. “They make bank.” 

Stella shivered next to him. “Still dangerous.” 

“Nanny?” 

She made a  _ pfft _ sound. “I’ve seen your parenting skills firsthand.” 

Walker barked a laugh, a real one from the bottom of his soul. 

“You’re a Ranger, dad. It’s who you are. Maybe be that for a while.” 

“I’m your dad first.” 

Stella yawned and turned over in the bed towards the fire. “My dad is a Texas Ranger,” she declared into the firelight. “Mom was proud of you.” 

Walker’s throat ached but he pressed on through the vulnerability. “I miss her. I mean...it’s hard for me, too.” 

His daughter was quiet for so long that Walker figured she may have fallen asleep. The fire crackled pleasantly and an instant later, Stella confessed, “I think...if she were here...she’d say that you were doing a good job,” Stella whispered with a sniffle. "You're tryin', dad. I see it." 

Walker reached across the giant bed to grip Stella's blanket-covered shoulder. "Go to sleep, Stella." 

Heart soaring more than breaking, Walker knew this moment would get him through the days, both bitter and sweet, to come.

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea in my head after episode 1.02. Jared's already been great at channeling repressed grief, but I just wanted Walker to feel it and also confront the fact that he's a pretty crappy dad LOL. I also wanted to write some partner bonding with Cordell and Micki. Walker is kind of a mess, but I still love it and I understand that it's finding itself. Let me know what you think. 
> 
> Also, I know very little about horses. I tried.
> 
> I might have cried written this. I plead the fifth.


End file.
